Accusations
by lord-is-it-mine
Summary: I wrote this a while back, because obviously SOME people needed reminding that France is not a rapist. How would you feel if someone was accusing you of such an awful thing just because you were a flirtatious person? I know he's a fictional character, but this is a serious issue. False accusations hurt.


Arthur woke up slowly, stretching his limbs and kicking his mind into gear. It was early in the morning, too early if he was being honest, but work had to be done.

'Coffee'. He thought drowsily. 'I just need coffee'.

He pulled himself up and out of the bed, barely even registering the fact that the other side of it was empty, the sheets thrown back in a haphazardly fashion. Not unusual; Francis had always been an early riser, a morning person in general- like a lot of things, it annoyed Arthur to no end. The upside was that when the Brit woke up, he would almost always be greeted by the smell of breakfast wafting through the house, and even the soft lilt of a French lullaby echoing down the hall.

This morning, however, everything was quiet. Quiet and dark, as the sky outside was full of nothing but rain. There wasn't a single light on, and even the air smelled gloomy. Arthur ignored these goings on, intent on nothing but his craving for caffeine. He ambled down the hallway to the kitchen, yawning loudly and running his fingers over his awfully tousled mess of blond hair. just when he reached the coffee pot, the silence was broken.

It was a sound Arthur rarely ever heard. It was a sound he hadn't heard in a very very long time. But nonetheless, it was a sound that Arthur knew instantly.

It was the sound of Francis crying.

Arthur hated that sound. More precisely, he hated anyone who would drive Francis to the point of making such a sound. That broken, mournful, wretched sobbing that was almost like listening to someone's heart as it broke into pieces.

Arthur rushed around the end of the counter, only to find Francis in a heap against the wall, head in his hands, chest heaving and shoulders fallen in grief. Arthur immediately fell to his knees next to the man, concerned and frightened and most of all angry at whoever had caused this. For a moment he was unsure of what to do- it was usually he that cried- Francis was the strong one, the happy one, the one to make everything better.

Francis barely looked up at Arthur before collapsing against his chest, his fingers gripping for dear life to the man's nightshirt, tears staining the fabric. Instead of shying away, Arthur wrapped his arms gently around the crying man's shoulders, buried his face in his golden hair and just let him weep. And for what could have been hours, but was only a moment, Francis did weep. And Arthur felt helpless and was brought close to tears himself.

"Francis, what happened?" He finally found the voice to ask when the Frenchman pulled away.

"It doesn't matter, it's just foolishness, really it's-"

"No." Arthur insisted. "Tell me."

"Always, all I've ever tried to do was make people feel special. Feel loved. It's the most important thing, love, and they, they don't understand-" Francis choked quietly "they think I only care about sex, even if someone else doesn't want it, and the things they're saying, it's not what I've been, it's-"

Arthur had no words in that moment. There were people out there who actually thought these things, that this man, the country of love, who sent roses to people just to let them know they were special, who strived everyday to show love to people- there were actually people who thought he could do such a filthy thing as take another person against their will? That he was a rapist? 'This is sick'. Arthur thought. 'This is so bloody disgusting'.

"God, Francis, you know that's not true, it's slander, it's not-"

"Arthur, the things they're saying, what if, what if I-" he breathed "have I ever?"

'He's doubting himself'….. Francis was doubting himself. These people (how can they call themselves that?) had made him doubt his own good intentions. Of course Francis was flirtatious. That was his nature. It was how he made others feel wanted. And no matter how many times Arthur had blushed and fought his (sometimes public) advances, he was honoured that of all the people Francis could have loved (because he could have chosen anyone) Francis had picked him.

"Francis listen to me. You have never done anything to deserve the awful lies these people have told. You are not what they say you are. You love like no one I've ever known. You are kind and tender and passionate and that is why people love you. And I know for a fact that you would never take advantage of that, not in a million years. And I'll bloody destroy anyone who says otherwise."

Arthur stared intently into Francis' eyes, wiping the residual tears from his cheeks and trying his damndest to convince him of the truth.

"Arthur-" Francis said breathlessly.

"Don't say anything." Arthur almost blushed from the way the other was looking at him; he'd never seen so much pure, unadulterated love in someone's gaze before (not even Francis').

"I'm going to make us Breakfast." He cleared his throat, getting to his feet and returning to his usual calm (and off-the-chart tsundere) self.

"Ohnon, I'm afraid I can't let you near the stove, not again Mon cher!" Francis pulled Arthur back down into his lap, the lilt of a lullaby returning to his voice, and a brightness coming back in those deep blue eyes. There was still something sad about him though, and Arthur wondered if it would ever really go away.


End file.
